Run to the Desert
by SensibleNonsense
Summary: At night, Soul had once told her, the moon and the Nevada desert are the same—cold, barren, and grinning. A SoMa fic based on the supposed location of Shibusen and Death City, and what it must be like to live there.


_"Toe to toe, back to back, l__et's go, my love;_

_it's very late_

_'Til morning come, let's tesselate."_

_-_alt J, 'Tesselate'

* * *

**AN: **To "tesselate" usually means to small tiles, creating a mosaic. Taken more loosely, it means to "fit together perfectly."

I recently visited my sister in Reno, and got to experience the Nevada landscape for the first time. Naturally, all I could think about was seeing Shibusen around the next corner of Death the Kid skate boarding across the hills. (Death City, according to the manga, is in Nevada.) This series is inspired by the natural conditions of Nevada-and therefore Death City-and each chapter is based on a theme. The tessellation theme kind of invaded this one, but it was originally supposed to be about the wide openness of Nevada.

* * *

At night, Soul had once told her, the moon and the Nevada desert are the same—cold, barren, and grinning.

They can feel the first on their skin as they speed across the dry, dusty earth on the back of Soul's bike.

The second is mapped in the endless expanses of scrublands and ragged-tree hills separating the three oases of civilization—Reno, Vegas, and Death City.

The third Soul can hear in the playa outside Death City that his wheels race across, turning vibrations into pitches.

* * *

Her papa is forever worrying about them going such long distances on Soul's motorcycle. Never mind the fact that they're a death scythe pair. It's the principle of the thing; a good father has to worry about his daughter. And Spirit is an expert worrier.

"They don't even wear helmets! And she has to cling right to him," Spirit has moaned on more than one occasion to Stein, perspiring at an alarming rate as his facial muscles twitch. "I bet he planned that, the little bastard. I'll bet he loves every second of it. And it's just one short leap from the motorcycle to the bedroom, Stein, anyone can tell you—"

"Senpai," says Stein, his glasses catching the light in that eerie way they do sometimes so that Spirit can't see the man's eyes. "You must remember: Not everyone is you."

Soul, of course, had had his bike before he'd even met Maka; he'd ridden into Death City on it with nothing but a change of clothes, a wad of cash, and a box of jazz vinyls strapped to the back. Maka's body pressed up against and arms around him are only a happy turn of fate—one which, Spirit would be alarmed to known, Soul enjoys almost as much as he fears.

* * *

"It doesn't seem like you, Maka, to let something like that slide," Tsubaki had once pointed out. She's right of course; it's a very inefficient way to travel, especially now that Soul can fly them places. She has an answer ready because she's asked herself the same thing often enough.

First and foremost, it's because it doesn't make sense to fly everywhere. Sure, when there's an emergency and they need to be on the seen quickly, it's excellent. But otherwise, it's a pointless drain on Soul's energy before the battle's even started. And Soul hasn't exactly been shy about letting her know how he hates having to fly her around. He's a weapon, he says, not a tool, and definitely not a damn broomstick.

But what it really comes down to is that Soul likes his bike, and a good partnership—not to mention, friendship—is all about balancing the give and take of who wants what.

With such a solid defense, it's easy to hide the reason that seals the deal.

They fit together on the bike like puzzle pieces. Heat seeps through their layers of fabric, fighting back against the freezing night. She can feel the muscles in his shoulders bunch and relax as he moves his hands on the handles. The sound of the engine in her ears and the thrum of the wheels flying across the ground feel like low-key resonance. Soul's in his element, and doesn't say a word when she rests her cheek against the back of his neck.

When they'd first become partners, she'd found the whole set up terribly awkward. She'd tried her best to keep a respectable space between them, but the wind resistance on long trips made her muscles ache before they'd even begun their fight. In the end, it was just a matter of getting to know—and trust—the boy she was riding with that gave her the confidence to hold on to him. Besides, she'd consoled herself, physical proximity is supposed to improve resonance, isn't it?

* * *

It's the tiny hours of the morning and they're returning home from one of countless missions. Soul pulls into the little lot behind their building and cuts the engine. The night is still except for a dog barking in a distant neighborhood. Usually Maka springs off, eager to take a hot shower and fall into bed, but tonight she hasn't budged.

"Uh…Maka?" He turns around in his seat, hands falling from the handles to his lap.

She lifts her cheek from his shoulder and blinks owlishly. "We're back already?"

"Uh-huh." Soul peers at her—searching for anything more dangerous than exhaustion—and finds only a pink flush rising underneath the bruise on cheek as she unlocks her arms from him and leans away. "Stiff…sorry," she grimaces.

Missing the contact, Soul leans his elbows against her knees, reclining slightly as she stretches—and immediately flinches away. "Christ," he swears, "You're freezing. Can you even feel your legs?"

"Not really." On longer trips, with only her usual short skirt, the cold and wind often makes them numb. Tonight the skin on her thighs is a raw, angry pink.

"Shit, Maka. Can't you wear some pants or somethin'?" His voice is gruff, but he eases back into his previous position and starts roughly rubbing her shins in an attempt to bring back feeling.

"Pants restrict movement," she says, yawning hugely. "Not good in a fight." Under his ministrations her legs are beginning to come back to life, prickling painfully.

He knows better than to argue, so dismounts and stretches. Maka's still on the bike, shoulders slumped and staring off into space. He regards her for a moment and then smirks. "You need me to carry you up?"

She turns and glares, the cute flush returning. "No," she snaps.

But the bruise on her face, together with the several on her sides and legs, weigh on his conscience. If he'd been quicker, if he'd been stronger, he thinks, ignoring the fact that he's looking just as rough.

"Come on," he cajoles. "Free pass. You won't even owe me one."

She's still glaring at him, but there's no heat behind it. He hoists her onto his back and carries her through the little lobby and up the stairs. If their neighbors didn't know them better, he muses, they'd assume he was just a normal kid carrying his plastered girlfriend home from a party. Sometimes he wishes it were true. But the wounds give them away.

Maka fishes around in her coat pocket when they reach their door on the second floor and leans around his shoulder to put the key in the lock. He nudges the door open with a toe. The warmth and familiar smell of home—cat food and cooking spices—sweep over them. Soul deposits Maka on the couch where she wiggles out of her shoes and coat. Soul disappears and reappears, dragging the comforters from each of their beds.

"Soul, what're you…?" He throws her her blanket and kicks off his own shoes before collapsing onto the other end of the couch and wrapping his blanket around himself.

"Concussion Watch," he says, grinning as he shoves his dirty sock feet in her face and wiggles them around. She makes a face and pushes them away. "Gotta keep an eye out for the symptoms."

"That doesn't even make sense." (But she's pulling the comforter around her and stretching out her own legs.) "Neither one of us is going to be able to stay awake."

"Then think of it like a sleep over," he offers.

She pulls the offensive-smelling socks off his stupid feet which are resting on the stupid couch arm behind her head—"It doesn't count as a sleep over if we live in the same house, stupid"—and throws them at his stupid grinning face.

She rests her head against his shins and he wiggles around irritably, trying to get comfortable. ("I swear this couch used to be bigger." "No, you just used to be smaller.") Finally, they both close their eyes, but Maka's feet are still cold and she tries to tuck them surreptitiously against his side. He shifts and makes an annoyed sound.

"Jeezuz, I'm a good partner," he grumbles as he takes her feet and tucks them underneath his armpit. She wrinkles her nose, cuddling into him.

Sure, by the time they wake up tomorrow the Nevada sun will be grinning and laughing like an idiot, making them sweat under their blankets. And Soul will have taken over the whole couch, stretched out with his feet in her face again. He'll probably have drooled on the cushions and she'll have given him a couple more bruises, kicking him in her sleep. But that's tomorrow.

He yawns so hugely she can see every one of his sharky teeth.

Tomorrow.


End file.
